


Two Dead Flies

by deardracula



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-22
Updated: 2013-10-22
Packaged: 2017-12-30 03:11:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1013390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deardracula/pseuds/deardracula
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean had gotten away without a scratch, not a twisted ankle, nothing that would leave a scar. He touched Sam’s split lip again, wishing that the color and the swelling and the blood there would sweep under his skin and hang on his own face, scarring him instead of the person he had sworn so many times to protect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Dead Flies

**Author's Note:**

> There's a little bit of a blood kink? I don't even know if it's much of a kink, but I thought I'd point it out. (title courtesy of Bobby Fischer, kind of?)

Dean was running. From what exactly, he wasn't sure, he just knew it had claws and fangs and he had lost Sam about a half an hour ago and it was getting hard to breathe. The moon overhead bathed everything in a ghoulish light, whitewashing it, painting the trees around him grey like he was sprinting through a 1930's film. He was calling out desperately; his brother's name the only thing he remembered how to say as his chest heaved with enough force to split him in two. He tripped over something solid and wet sprawled across the ground, skinning his knees on the carpet of twigs and thorns. "Sam?" His voice cracked as pitiful moans erupted from the broken form beside him. "Oh god," he scrambled forward, his hands shaking, hovering over him like he was afraid that if he touched him, he would break.

He was babbling wordlessly and Sam stared up at him with pleading eyes, more scared that Dean had ever seen them. He had his hands were clamped over his belly as blood bubbled up between his fingers, painting his skin black, lacing the air with the thick stench of iron. Dean pulled his t-shirt off, the bones under his tired skin clattering at he watched Sam's life pool around him like a poached animal. He ripped the cotton into strips with his teeth, moving Sam's hands away so he could patch him up, make him better. But when Sam's hands fell away, the deep laceration pulled and stretched and let the sleek curve of an organ slip out between the jagged edges. Dean nearly vomited, heaving dryly as he forced his vision to clear and his hands to stay steady. "It's nothing, Sammy." He worked the fabric around him, his fingers swimming in the impossibly hot soup of his brother's blood. "You'll be fine." Sam was staring at him with vacant eyes, wide and unseeing as Dean tried to lift him off the ground. "Stay with me Sam," he grabbed the side of his face, color blooming across and cut under his left eye, "come on, look at me."

Sam was sweating, cold and clammy as Dean struggled to get him upright as he limbs refused to move, hanging limply as he was dragged him out of the dense forest to where the Impala was parked a good hundred and fifty yards away.

They got to the car without inflicting any more damage. The thing that had been chasing them earlier must have retreated back into the thick underbrush.

Dean worked the back door open without surrendering his grip around Sam’s waist. His brother was dead weight in his arms, too heavy and too big to be escorted with finesse. His head lulled against Dean’s shoulder, his face buried in his neck as his hot breath ghosted over the rapid pulse in his veins. Dean laid him across the back seat, Sam’s blood slicking across his stomach and chest as he folded him into the leather and closed the door, moving around the car to find his place behind the wheel.

~~~

Looking back, he couldn't recall the drive to the hospital; he only remembered the thick coating of deep red – black in the moon light – on his hands and the way it made his palms slip over the wheel.

There was a flurry of people around them the moment they stepped through the doors, nurses, doctors and civilians alike. Dean knew what they looked like. Knew that he looked abusive with his face twisted in panic and rage and something else he couldn't put a name to. He was shirtless and Sam was pale, losing blood fast and despite his best efforts, there was a slow but steady stream ichor running down Sam’s legs, trailing behind them like a river, cutting through the stark white linoleum floor.

Sam was taken away from him and rushed somewhere out of his line of sight before he had time to protest, to insist that he had to stay with him, had to know he was going to be okay. They stripped away all his false heroism and sat him down in the waiting room with a pile of forms and a paper shirt.

There was a man to his left complaining about pain in his foot and a woman two seats to his right with a child in her arms that wouldn't stop crying. He didn't want to be there. He wanted to be watching, helping because they didn't know. They didn't understand Sam like he did, and if he had the knowledge and the tools, he would have done everything himself. He tugged at the leather cord around his neck, the thick stack of papers and dull blue shirt sitting in his lap untouched. He stood up and paced, the blood on his hands and streaked across his chest tacky and dry, cracking as he moved. The woman behind the desk watched him apprehensively, her deep set brown eyes flicking to the war paint he so obviously was supposed to have washed off, but wouldn't, or couldn't because the feeling of it pulling at the hair on his arms as it dried and the tug of it as he moved his torso was the only part of Sam they couldn't take away.

The clock on the wall was broken, he was sure. Time couldn't have been moving as slowly as the damn thing claimed it was because he had been in that room for three years, at least, and Sam was still somewhere behind the set of doors at the end of the hall that was painted with words that denied him access to a majority of his rights as a human being. He kept his necklace wound tightly between his fingers and his brother’s blood caked on his skin, snapping viciously at the receptionists when she asked him to put a shirt on, it was unsanitary.

~~~

A life time later, a man in scrubs came out to escort him into the room they had put Sam in. Dean was barely listening as he ran him through everything they did and everything that was wrong with him, too riddled with rancor for his ears to pick up anything that wasn't the promise of Sam’s ephemeral recovery.

The doctor pushed open the door to the room Sam was sharing with a middle aged woman being feed artificially with a tube, the curtain between their beds giving them a false sense of privacy. The doctor took the clipboard hanging on a hook at the end of Sam's bed and left.

Dean fell forward, weary of the tubes attached to the bend of Sam’s elbows and the one breathing into his nose as he sank to his knees beside the plastic covered mattress. Sam was barely conscious, looking up at him with blurry eyes. “I swear to god, Sam.” Dean hissed, pushing his hair off his forehead with a flat hand. Sam smiled, his eyes falling to half-mast as Dean pushed through hair that had gone three days without a shower, sweat and dirt sticking to his fingers as he pulled them across his scalp. He searched his eyes furiously for something out of place, something that hadn’t been there that morning, but Sam was just looking up at him and smiling lazily, his hands hooked over Dean’s forearms.

The bruise under Sam’s eye was creeping up towards his eyebrow, red and black and angry. His bottom lip was fat and busted, bruising slowly under Dean’s heavy gaze. He moved a thumb across it, the calloused print catching in the torn flesh. Dean had gotten away without a scratch, not a twisted ankle, nothing that would leave a scar. He touched Sam’s split lip again, wishing that the color and the swelling and the blood there would sweep under his skin and hang on his own face, scarring him instead of the person he had sworn so many times to protect.

Dean couldn't tear his eyes away from him, his brow knit in concern and frustration. He looked so young with those glassy eyes and pale lips. Dean's hand were still closed around his face and he could feel himself being pulled down, like the moon to the earth. He could feel the heat of Sam's breath on his mouth as he leaned forward, Sam tilting his chin up until their mouths fitting together softly like something that was barely there. Dean sprung back when someone cleared their throat behind them.

The doctor glanced at the boy in the bed to the boy with his shoulders pressed against the wall and back again, his face curled in disgust. Dean's face was burning as the doctor pressed a bottle of pills into the palm of his hand, very clearly avoiding unnecessary contact. “I want him to stay over night. Just so we can keep an eye on him, make sure he's stable.”

Dean's eyes flicked over to Sam. “We can't stay that long, we have to get going.” Dean scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck.

“It would really be in his best interest to stay,” his eyes narrowed threateningly.

“I think I know what would be in his best interest, _doctor_.” Dean hissed as the both fell silent, glaring at each other through slitted eyes.

“Regardless,” he finally looked away as he flipped through the stack of papers on his clipboard. Dean watched him threateningly, thinking that it would be a real good idea to shove that damn thing down his throat. Doctors always had those fucking clipboards stuck under their noses, telling you what you already know like it's magic, like they were reading a crystal ball. “I can't, in good conscious, dispatch him. And as I'm looking now, I notice that you haven’t filled out any of the paperwork.” He looked at him over the rim of his glasses. “Now, are you his legal guardian?”

“Yes,” he answered too quickly, earning him a suspicious look.

“And you are how old?”

“Nineteen.”

The doctor hummed, scribbling something down with his a hospital issued pen. “In that case, I'm going to hand these back to you to fill out.” Dean looked at the forms in his hand of a moment, his mouth falling into a thin line. He sighed heavily before taking them by the corner.

He left the room and Dean surged forward, dropping the thick packet as he pulled IVs out of Sam's arms and unwound the tube from around his head. “Come on, Sammy.” He was pretty out of it, couldn't even put his pants on without Dean's help. “Come on, you bastard, use your legs.”

Eventually, he was dressed and the hospital gown was in a pile on the floor along with the violently bleached bed linens and the shit forms he didn't even understand to begin with. The heart monitor fell flat with a blaring alarm directed towards the hospital attendants which meant they would be swarming them like vultures in less time than it would take to get Sam out of the room at the pace he was going.

Dean cursed and picked Sam up by the knees, slinging him over his shoulder and running like the fanged creature was still on his ass, because in some way, it was like it was.

He was so exhausted from being chased earlier that evening and from the mental strain of wondering if Sam would bleed out in the back seat of the Impala. It was almost too much to bare, and now he was running with liquid knees and dead weight over his shoulder, weaving through gurneys and nurses and old women shuffling through the halls with bags of fluid hanging over their heads.

His mind was moving light years ahead of him and he nearly missed the wheelchair sitting vacant in the hall. Blood had trickled past the severed cotton of Sam's t-shirt and onto Dean's shoulder but it was just from the stitches beating against Dean's bones as he ran like a thief, so he was glad for it. Glad for the slick drag as it dripped over his skin and glad for the brilliant heat because it meant that Sam was alive.

Sam kept smiling at him as Dean dropped him into the chair and wheeled him down the hall and out the door that was designated from ambulance deliveries. There were people yelling for him to stop behind them even through they knew he wouldn't.

The parking lot was so massive and the darkness was pressing down heavily on his collapsing lungs. He couldn't for the life of them remember where he had parked over the buzzing in his brain, so he pushed Sam behind a forgotten wall, away from cars and security cameras and human eyes. He collapsed into a wheezing heap, impressed with himself that he had enough sense to hit the break on the chair.

Sam was looking at him with pupils that the drugs had pushed out until his green eyes were nothing more than thin bands around endless explosions of black. “You kissed me.” He smiled, the skin at the corners of his eyes folding as he touched his lips with the pads of his fingers. “Why did you kiss me?”

Dean couldn't tell if he was laughing because he was happy or because there was still shit pumping involuntarily through his veins. “I don't know, Sammy.” He looked down at his knees, his chest still heaving, working a cramp into his side.

“Would you have done it if you didn't think I was dying?”

Dean looked up at him through a thick veil of eyelashes. His mouth fell open like he knew the answer, but his words got caught in his throat and his mind froze. “I haven't thought about it.”

“Would you do it again?”

“Why are you asking such dumb questions?”

“Just answer.” Sam pressed, his mouth still hitched into a stupid grin. Dean shrugged, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. “What if I wanted you to?”

Dean's eyebrows shot into his hairline before falling flat again. “You wouldn't be saying that if you weren't so smacked.” He shook his head slowly, jumping slightly when he felt a hand around the back of his neck. “Don't,” he picked his head up, their noses bumping.

“Why?”

“Because I don't want this to be something you regret.”

“Who said I will?”


End file.
